


How to Train Your Cat

by Pipsqueak the Hipsqueak (cranky__crocus)



Category: The Worst Witch (TV), The Worst Witch - All Media Types, The Worst Witch Series - Jill Murphy
Genre: F/F, Gen, Imagine your OTP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Pipsqueak%20the%20Hipsqueak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imagine person A of your OTP realizing they have to win over person B’s pet." - tumblr 'imagine your OTP' prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this months ago in response to a prompt on tumblr (see summary). It went on hold as I had to work on other projects; I finished it the other day and edited it enough that I can put it up. (If you see any mistakes, please gently alert me to them and I will be grateful!) I'm posting it in a few little chapters because after years of long HP stories posted as one chapter, I have more fun posting things in chapters over a few days.
> 
> Thank you, always, for the support of my tumblr friends and fabulous fandom. It may be little, but it's one of the best fandoms around; there's no place more welcoming.
> 
> Reviews are always *so* appreciated!

It was a chilly night at Cackle’s Academy. The students would have argued the vast inaccuracy of this assessment and pointed out that it went far beyond the average British understatement: if it was a ‘chilly’ night in town, it was downright frigid up at Castle Overblow. Few students articulated their complaints as curfew had passed hours ago and even the senior girls had tucked themselves up in bed, after casting trivial warming spells, and subsequently fallen asleep. (They would likely awaken hours later complaining of heat, as if they had fallen asleep in an oven, and chuck off their jumpers—only to retrieve them again later as part of a vicious cycle.)

                None of this concerned Constance Hardbroom overly much. A bit of chill was good for the girls—it built character, even with the tradition-defying glass installations—and it hardly touched her, covered as she was from neck to toes in multiple layers. It was even less of a concern as she reclined in the glow of one of the perks of the job: a blazing fire in the staff workroom.

                Constance peeked toward her usual workstation—a writing desk in the corner—and back to the flickering flames near her feet. In the evenings she was not so opposed to relaxing a little into one of the armchairs for her marking. She sat with her legs tucked up beneath her, shoes long forgotten on the floor, as she steadily circled and annotated the parchments tacked to her clipboard.

                While she would normally have observed any intrusions, the moment found her thoroughly engaged with the paper before her and the general peace of her surroundings.

                ‘I see you’re actually using that thing.’

                Constance started at the sound and abruptly looked up, hastily pinpointing the destroyer of her peace and solitude. Imogen Drill lounged against the closed door, her smile faint in the flickering light.

                ‘Yes, well,’ Constance began. She shifted the papers on her lap and moved as if to get more comfortable; despite that, her new posture was clearly less relaxed than the last. She tapped the clipboard, a gift from Imogen after she caught the witch using a book beneath her marking. ‘It has its uses.’

                Imogen laughed at the tone, which additionally implied that Imogen had her limited uses as well, though perhaps this moment did not prove it. Imogen marvelled at the way Constance could convey so much in so few words: it was all in the tone, expression and posturing. Constance could be quite calculating in that way.

                ‘You’ll go blind working like this,’ Imogen commented as she moved to the opposing armchair. ‘Beats me how the lot of you live with no electricity. I could stub my toe in this dark and here you are deciphering student scribbles.’

                Constance stared at her, not quite sure where to begin with her scorn. ‘I’m not sure what your hap-hazard clumsiness has to do with centuries of successful tradition, but I assure you there’s no need to worry after my eyesight. Hours of reading these “scribbles” and I can see you’re about to—’

                But she was too late. A sound rang through the staffroom and likely ricocheted down the corridor: the sound of a cat screeching.

                Imogen ducked down, murmuring sounds of apology as she moved. ‘I’m sorry, Morgana, I didn’t see you there in the shadows. I’m terribly sorry.’

                ‘Perhaps if you paid more mind to your feet than my aged eyes,’ Constance snapped, unimpressed and downright furious.

                ‘To be fair, you could have warned me sooner if you saw it coming—’

                ‘Oh yes, please do blame me for your inability to simply walk across a room without causing feline distress and cacophony.’

                Imogen reached to mollify the cat or at least tempt her out from beneath the armchair. In the process, she knocked over Constance’s boots.

                ‘But I see you’re not quite done wreaking havoc,’ she added tersely. ‘By all means, don’t let me stop you.’

                ‘I’m sorry Constance, I didn’t mean to—’

                ‘I’m not interested in your intent when your impact is what sets my cat off. She’ll be grooming all night at this rate. For goodness’ sake, let her be! Waving your arm in her face like that—you couldn’t possibly think that would help?’

                Imogen pulled herself upright and sat on her haunches, having finally been reacquainted with her own temper. ‘Yes, since clearly I’m no expert on cats or witches or anything traditional. And it’s not as though you’d let me get a word in edgewise—’

                ‘Because your words are supposed to be so valuable to me?’ Constance challenged. She stared down at Imogen from her perch up on the armchair. Imogen’s hands were knocked away as Constance lowered her feet down to the floor. She scooped up her shoes in her free hand and walked to the door. ‘I’ll take my leave of your innocent intents and undervalued words, now, and try for some peace of mind or sleep—but more likely soothing my poor cat’s nerves. _Pleasant_ evening, Miss Drill.’

                Constance called to Morgana only once and the cat came slinking after her, shooting looks back at Imogen over the betrayal.

                Imogen sighed and drew in a long breath as the two disappeared down the corridor.

                ‘Well that went according to plan,’ she said to the empty room. She stood to take a seat in one of the armchairs and noticed that the clipboard had been left on the seat. The tool had apparently outgrown its usefulness.

                Imogen flopped down into the other armchair and stared into the fire. All at once it came to her, the similarities between people and their pets. Constance was no more drawn to Imogen’s words and failed actions than Morgana, but between the pair of them, there was hope to be had. Imogen suddenly understood the best way to earn Constance’s trust, or approval, or at least something bordering on positive.

                The following evenings found Imogen in the library, with one trip into town on her off hours. She didn’t approach the staffroom again in the evening until she felt sufficiently prepared.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the shorter ones.

                It was another chilly evening at Cackle’s that found Imogen tucked up in one of the armchairs with a throw blanket spread over her lap. She was turning a page in her book when the door opened and she was joined by a fellow member of staff.

                ‘I wasn’t aware you had work to do,’ Constance said, sounding rather put out. She decided against up and leaving the room out of pride: it was her space as much as anyone else’s—more-so, with her seniority—and it seemed foolish to grant her emotions run of her sense.

                ‘I’m reading up on the subject,’ Imogen replied. She held up the book briefly before dropping it back to her lap. In the moment of her shifted gaze, she noticed that Constance was joined by her usual feline companion.

                ‘Is that necessary?’ Constance inquired, half curious and half disdainful. She took a seat in the opposite armchair and tugged her feet out of her boots. Morgana perched on one boot as if to protect it. ‘Or has that ridiculous ball-and-net game changed in the weeks since you last attempted to teach it?’

                Imogen bristled at the implications of her “attempts” to teach and at the inadequacy of her subject. She stifled the urge to storm out of the room herself and took a deep breath instead. ‘There are always books to read on pedagogy. You yourself know the challenges of teaching a class out-of-doors. It takes skill, no matter the subject.’

                Constance was trapped between admitting Imogen’s teaching required skill or conceding that her own job came with no difficulties. At last she replied, with a doubtful edge, ‘Perhaps.’

                In her uncomfortable shifting, however, Constance had knocked a quill from the arm of her chair. It landed on Morgana’s head and rolled down the cat’s body. Morgana seemed none too pleased and hurried out of her mistress’ way, putting her closer to Imogen.

                Imogen took her chance. She gazed down at the cat and caught her eye, blinked once very slowly, and turned away to the fire. She hoped it would be taken as the cease-fire the books had told her it would.

                Morgana stared back. Imogen held her breath and repeated the gesture, sure to keep her posture loose and unintimidating.

                At last Morgana looked away and settled herself onto the hearthside rug, curling up for a cat nap with a hearty yawn. She was far closer to Imogen than she had been in days.

                When Imogen looked up, she was just quick enough to see Constance’s gaze darting away. The woman’s features were contemplative as she started back on her work.

                With every page Imogen read, she glanced to the cat. In her periphery she noticed that Constance appeared to be doing the same—followed by a look up to Imogen each time.

                Imogen smiled. She considered it a small success.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back for another longer one!

                The following week found Imogen Drill back in the staffroom as the evening chill set in and the torches were lit. Constance entered an hour later and held the door open long enough that Morgana could slink in after her.

                The witch sat without a word, merely a subtle sloping of her neck that could possibly be interpreted as a nod of salutation, and set to work. The only proof of her distraction was in her shoes, which remained on even as she lifted her legs.

                Morgana sat to tapping at the laces with her paw. After a few successful taps and no notice from her mistress, Morgana’s prods became swipes. Constance shot a look down at the first snag of claw in lace. She bent to untie her boots and rest them under the armchair, toes tucked beneath so Morgana couldn’t continue her play.

                The cat mourned her loss by turning around and sticking her tail up high as she scanned for something new. Something caught at her senses, for she began to stalk toward Imogen with clear intent.

                Imogen repeated her gesture of the previous week—a long, slow blink away from the cat’s gaze—and moved her blanket aside. She pushed her hand into a pouch beneath and withdrew a little brown treat, which she held up where Morgana would see it.

                The cat’s interest was immediate and evident. She stopped mid-step to watch the morsel; her tail twitched from side to side as she stared it down.

                Imogen tossed the treat to Morgana, expecting it to drop to the cat’s feet before it was consumed. Morgana had other plans: she shot up and snatched it right from the air with two paws. She had it in her mouth before she landed.

                Between her movement and Imogen’s breathy utterance of delighted surprise, enough noise was made to draw Constance’s attention. She glanced up from her work—an academic paper this time—and narrowed her eyes as she looked between her cat, delicately chewing away, and Imogen, whose hand had returned to the blanket.

                The evidence was not overwhelming enough for Constance to make comment, however, so she returned to her reading. Imogen smiled to see that despite her reading a professional academic piece, Constance was still making notations with red ink as if the writer were her student—an underachieving one at that, it seemed.

                Imogen read a few more pages in her own book, all the while taking delight in the strict attention Morgana paid her throughout. The cat sat on the hearthside rug with posture as grand as her mistress’ and stared her benefactor down.

                After enough time had passed, Imogen plucked up another treat and threw it. The same spectacle occurred, but Imogen admired it silently this time, and Constance barely stirred from her reading. Imogen grinned.

                She tossed the next treat closer. The next she broke in half—slowly and deliberately, so Morgana might know what she was up to—before tossing one to the cat’s feet. She dropped her hand down over the side of the armchair and dropped the other right beneath it. Morgana watched it but did not approach until Imogen had brought her hand up to the armrest again.

                Another half-treat fell from her fingers and straight into the cat’s mouth.

                Imogen thought kind, brave thoughts as she tried lowering her hand down with a final treat. Morgana watched it carefully and sniffed at it with her little pink nose. Imogen expected it to be consumed then, but instead Morgana lifted herself onto her haunches, took the treat with her two front paws, and lowered it to the floor before eating it.

                Imogen was so engrossed with these interactions that she missed the semi-silence of the room. The fire still crackled, but the scratching of a quill and the muttering of a critical Potions mistress had ceased.

                ‘What on Earth—?’ Constance openly stared at the motley pair before her.

                Imogen winced and held up a cat treat for Constance to behold. She jumped as Morgana chose that moment to hop onto the armrest and eat the treat straight from Imogen’s fingers. The cat nudged her hand, expectant of more.

                Constance frowned, her dark brows drawing together on opposite sides of a delicate line. ‘She’s only to eat certain treats.’

                ‘I know.’ Imogen kept her voice soft and non-confrontational as she pulled the pouch from beneath the blanket. It was a recognisable little bag that only came from one place. ‘You get them home-made from the Cackle’s kitchen. They made me a batch.’

                Constance opened her mouth only to shut it again, unsure of what to say. She cleared her throat and tapped her quill against the corner of her page. ‘You’re spoiling her and teaching her terrible habits.’

                ‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen replied, glancing down at the cat pawing at her hand. She flexed her fingers away, tutted, and gave Morgana a stricter look. The cat sat back on the chair and merely stared. Imogen turned back to the witch. ‘I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to make amends.’

                ‘I think you’re well amended,’ Constance stated. Her voice was not as dry or accusatory as it often was; if anything, it sounded almost warm—by comparison, anyway. She watched the pair carefully and brought the quill before her mouth to hide the twitching of her lips. ‘She’s had enough for the evening. I don’t want her pestering me all week with false hope.’

                Imogen smiled back and pulled the string-seal tight. Morgana watched the action and seemed to wilt somewhat; Imogen offered her hand instead. The cat sniffed at the fingers and gave one last nudge with her head, a final request for more.

                It was almost like petting. Imogen laughed as Morgana, realising there was no more to be had, jumped off the chair and curled up on the rug for her evening nap.

                Constance peeked over her paper and took in Imogen’s genuine smile. The witch’s eyes were still narrowed, but it was combined with a subtle upturning of her lips on one side.

                Imogen pretended not to notice as she watched the cat; inside, she was grinning like a madman. Almost-approval from Constance Hardbroom was one of the highest awards out there and Imogen had earned it fair and square.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a playful little chapter.

                The next week found Morgana trotting straight to Imogen as the pair entered the staffroom. Once the destination was reached, Morgana pounced up on the chair and stared at Imogen’s lap, which was where the treats had emerged from the prior week.

                ‘You’re a clever little one,’ Imogen said with admiration. She offered her hand, slowly, and smiled as Morgana gave it what might have been more nuzzle than nudge; it lasted longer, anyway. ‘But I’ve something else for you today.’

                She saw out of the corner of her eye that she had Constance’s attention as well, even as the witch undid her laces and pointed her toes out of her semi-heeled boots. They hit the floor louder than they often did; Constance was not monitoring her own activities as strictly as she watched the pair across the rug.

                Imogen removed a stick from beneath her blanket and unravelled the string wrapped around it from base to tip; it straightened to a surprising length. She held up the end, which was black and feathered but sturdy. Morgana sniffed at it and instantly went in for a nuzzle.

                ‘Do I smell catnip?’ came Constance’s booming voice, all accusation once more. ‘One might hope I don’t, or one might suffer the consequences.’

                But her strict opinions came as no surprise; Imogen had predicted them. She held up the toy to the light of the crackling fire and candlelight. ‘It’s not filled, only rubbed. I won’t drug your cat. I promise.’

                Constance’s gaze was dark in the warm firelight, which turned her eyes as black as her hair and her hair an almost reddish hue as it reflected the fire. The slope of her eyebrows had loosened; she looked more curious than cross now and Imogen inwardly released a sigh of relief.

                She felt soft paw-pads against her knuckles and looked down to see Morgana had pressed a paw against her hand, impatient. Imogen smiled and dropped the toy over the chair, flicking it carefully until the end jumped across the room, then held it steady. She had practised with some of the students’ cats.

                Morgana hopped from the chair and stared at the thing, which Imogen twitched from time to time. She knew to be patient: she had read up on domestic cats and their hunting behaviours.

                The cat’s tail twitched excitedly from side to side as she crouched low and stared at the thing; her eyes would not leave it even as Imogen began to tug it gently, imitating the motion of a mouse. She hid it behind a chair leg.

                When it reappeared, Morgan’s hindquarters began to quiver. Imogen smiled. Soon.

                The mouse was halfway to Constance when Morgana finally pounced. The real game was on now: Imogen would tug it away as soon as Morgana’s grip loosened, and the chase would ensue; occasionally it stilled into another bout of staring, but always a pounce would follow.

                There were occasional comments from Constance: ‘Not near the fire.’ ‘Do mind the shoes.’ ‘Don’t knock that table.’ They were surprisingly mild, given the witch who spoke them, and it verified to a certain extent that Imogen and Morgana had her attention.

                Imogen could see when Morgana went in for the killing bite. She pounded at it with her legs and turned the toy over as if biting down on a wildebeest’s neck. Imogen gave it a few last shakes—its dying tremors—and stilled it, dropping the pole. Morgana did not seem the least bit displeased by this development—the opposite, in fact, as she stalked proudly back to the chair with the fake mouse and deposited it before Imogen’s feet.

                She took out a treat and held it in her lap; in an instant Morgana was there, gripping it gently with her teeth and purring away after she’d eaten it. She forsake the fire altogether and circled around Imogen’s lap before dropping down into a furry cat ball, yawning once and falling asleep.

                A glance up confirmed that Constance was observing them with quiet intensity. Her features were masked over, as if she intended them to be unreadable, and yet Imogen could see a certain degree of surprise there, mixed with something akin to regard.

                Imogen blinked slowly; Constance blinked twice, quickly, in immediate succession. Her fine black brows came together almost imperceptibly as she took in the sight of her cat and the non-witch. Her book lay open and unread before her.

                There was something like tension crackling in the room alongside the fire, and yet it was different from the usual sort, for it was softer and more inquisitive, with the promise of conclusion when the flames settled to ashes. Imogen vowed to reach those ashes and find that conclusion once and for all.

                If she could charm the woman’s cat, could she charm the woman as well? She wouldn’t know if she didn’t try.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final one!

                The next week found Morgana trotting straight over to Imogen, unprompted and without bribery, as soon as the witch and the cat entered the staffroom. Constance marked her familiar’s movement with a careful expression as she took her customary seat.

                Morgana hopped straight onto Imogen’s lap and looked up expectantly. Imogen feared the moment would be over as soon as it began when she revealed that she had no treat and only her two empty hands, with nothing of note under the blanket. Instead, the cat nuzzled the hand and continued to look expectant—no, _demanding_ —as she elongated her neck and waited to be stroked.

                The purring started softly as Imogen moved her fingers along the cat’s fur. A few rubs by her cheeks and the feline began to purr in earnest, enough to vibrate Imogen’s entire lap; she was surprised at the sound and feel of it.

                Constance appeared to be equally surprised, for she gazed up and took in the pair of them with a discerning gaze.

                ‘She seems quite fond of you,’ Constance stated with her usual wry tone, although with more warmth than was otherwise to be expected. Imogen noticed that the clipboard was back in the witch’s good graces; she had it rested against her knee and was marking an assessment atop the firm surface.

                Perhaps that meant Imogen was back to being useful again, too. She didn’t want to ruin the tentatively cordial moment with words; they tended to be where she botched things.

                Eventually Morgana pressed her face once to Imogen’s and settled into the woman’s lap, face toward her. The cat’s eyes were relaxed and hooded as she purred.

                Imogen nearly jumped to hear Constance’s voice sound again; it was not so unusual for them to spend an entire evening in almost complete silence, save the scribbling of notes and the turning of pages.

                ‘How were the girls today?’

                It was such an innocuous question—casual, one might even think, if it were to come from anyone other than Constance Hardbroom. But it did come from her, and anything casual that left her lips was a rarity in and of itself: she was not a casual person.

                ‘Lazy and unenthused. I put them to work memorising the rules of the game with a quiz to end the week.’

                Constance’s lips quirked up more smoothly than they had ever before. ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. After a short pause her eyebrow jumped. ‘That’s what you would say to a teammate, is it not?’

                Imogen quickly pegged it for a joke and snorted out a laugh, which drew a wider smile from Constance; her humour often went unappreciated. The comment was the closest thing Imogen had ever heard to validation regarding her subject. She replied in kind, crafting a pun of sorts on Constance’s subject in return: ‘Yes, it is. You concocted that quite nicely.’

                She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Constance smile in such an uninhibited way. For a moment the room was quiet, filled only with the crackling of the fire, the purring of the cat and the beating of Imogen’s rather smitten heart. Imogen noticed that something was missing, and yet the scene felt so real and wonderful; it took her a moment to recognise that the only thing missing was the uneasy tension that ordinarily existed between the two women.

                They spoke on and off throughout the evening, sometimes of smaller things—Constance tired of that quickly—and then on to the deeper thoughts that crept through the women’s minds. Each exchange was bracketed in a time of silence, during which Constance marked homework and Imogen worked on the test she was crafting.

                When the fire was fast approaching ashes and the candle had melted down toward the handle, Constance made to gather her belongings. She had packed them away by the time she paused and took in the sight of Imogen again.

                ‘Would you care for a nightcap? I keep a spot of sherry in my study. I usually drink it over a game of chess. I don’t suppose you play?’

                Imogen kept herself from smiling at what was the closest she’d ever heard Constance come to rambling. The woman’s face was masked somewhat, and hard to read in the darkened room, but Imogen could see that there was some apprehension there. The request had not come without risk: she could say no, and Constance would be rejected; she imagined Constance typically avoided situations that might bring about just that feeling.

                In response, Imogen smiled in a manner she hoped conveyed gratitude and not amusement. ‘I do, actually. Learned from my Da. I’d love a nightcap—that’s just the thing.’

                Constance smiled back, some relief showing in the curve of her lips and the rise of her eyebrows, as she responded, ‘That it is. In moderation.’

                ‘Of course,’ Imogen confirmed with a relaxed little grin. She made to get up and found she had to lift Morgana along with her; the cat remained in her arms, still purring. ‘Lead the way.’

                Constance did. It was the first time Imogen had ever seen the witch’s private study.

                It was not, thankfully, the last; and with each weekly visit, Imogen was sure to bring a little something for Morgana, who was the best cat-catalyst in the whole castle and then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the conclusion is enough for you and you're not too disappointed it doesn't get steamier. (:

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it; please let me know if you did. (:


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